Three Nights in Paris
by KamikazeSolo
Summary: It's 1929 and Paris is the center of the world. So Alfred Jones decides to journey to France to see what all of the fuss is about. This is also when he realizes he has unconventional feelings for a certain Brit. Unfortunately, so does Francis and Alfred realizes he only has these three nights in Paris to express his feelings. Three nights to play a game he's already losing badly.
1. First Day

**Hey guys! Alright so I know I haven't updated my other story, but I'm in the process of writing it so hopefully I can get the next chapter done some time this winter break. **

**But lo and behold! Another story! And this one is actually USUK. Okay I'm not a USUK fan at all (FrUK is my OTP)and I usually cannot stand USUK so my motives for writing this story is actually surprising. But I really like the idea so I'm going to see it through. This is also sort of a manifestation of a complicated personal headcanon so yeah... Well, I hope you like this and stick with me till the end!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Also, I apologize for any grammar/tense issues and for any characterization I get wrong (like I said, I'm not comfortable with writing in USUK shoes yet but I will get better I promise!)**

Alfred will never hear the end of it. Dressed in a suit with slicked back hair tucked under a hat and one hand covering the cigar in his mouth with another lighting it, he can't help but roll his eyes as F. Scott Fitzgerald rambles on and on. Paris, he says, is the most magical city in the entire world. It's majestic. It's marvelous. It's miraculous. It's a whole bunch of other M-words that only an author could come up with and Alfred cannot keep up with the other anymore.

"So, Paris huh? Last time I went, it was a mess," Alfred says, taking a puff of his cigar and spitting smoke back into the air. The taste tobacco fills his mouth and he can hear Susan singing on stage about the classiness of American life. He knows she's probably wearing a red dress. This is one of the many nightclubs in New York he is familiar with. The 1920's can't get any better. 1929 had been quite prosperous so far.

Fitzgerald smirks and lights his own cigar. "And when exactly was the last time you visited?"

It takes a minute as Alfred reminisces. He finally shrugs, takes a long drag of his cigar and answers,

"I'd say around 1780. Or 1790. I have absolutely terrible memory. Don't ask me to think about things from so long ago. It hurts my brain."

Fitzgerald's eyes flicker to a very faded scar running from Alfred's right temple down to the tip of his cheekbone but he says nothing of the war that tore the world to pieces. Instead, he only chuckles.

"Well the 1790's are not the 1920's certainly even you understand that," the writer teases, motioning for a glass of champagne from the passing waiter. "Everyone is there! All of your writers and painters and visionaries have all found abode in the City of Lights. You must pay it a visit, I insist."

The images of a very large and animated city flashes through Alfred's mind. Paris, he had to admit, had actually been beautiful in the 1700's in its own way. He has always looked up to Paris. He has always looked up to Francis. And if his own have begun to consider the glamorous city their second home then it is only fair that he go and see what all the commotion is about. _Besides, _he thinks, _Europe has calmed down now. It's probably safe to come out of isolation for a while. _

The memory of two blond men invade his mind and he only smiles as recognizes them as his two oldest of allies and oldest of foes. In his head they are smiling but weakly and their faces are gaunt with exhaustion. That is how Alfred last saw them. At the end of the War to end all wars. He has to admit that he's been curious to see how they have been faring in the fine year of 1929. The only person he's really seen in the past couple of years is Canada and it's time he sees a face that has no resemblance to his own.

With his mind made up, Alfred grinds his cigar into the ashtray in front of him and stands up, straightening his coat. Fitzgerald looks up at him in surprise.

"Where are you going?" he asks, though the knowing look on his face indicates that he already has some clue.

Writers. They always act like they know everything.

Alfred flashes him an iconic grin and tips his hat in a gentlemanly fashion.

"I think there's a city called Paris across the ocean that's calling my name. Happen to know where it is?" Alfred answers.

Fitzgerald stands so that he is at eye level with his companion and holds up his drink, slyly grabbing another from a waiter for Alfred who takes it.

"I'll tell you when I finish this drink," Fitzgerald says as he clinks his glass against Alfred's and they both down the glossy champagne in a gulp.

* * *

Alfred is currently standing on the deck of a magnificent ship destined for France, feeling the salty breeze whipping his skin. He is not too fond of the smell of the sea but he feels alive nonetheless. It's at times like these when he realizes that he doesn't have to be on the battlefield to feel like a hero.

He had sent a telegram to Francis the morning of letting his ally know of his sudden visit. The young nation smiles. That sudden message must have put the high-ended country's panties in a twist. Francis is like every other European nation. He hates not knowing what to expect. If anything he'll have extra bright lights hanging from his vintage streetlamps just so Alfred won't put down the reputation of his beautiful country.

Alfred slides a hand into the inner pockets of his coat and pulls out his cigar box, taking one out and lighting, all the while pondering the possibility of Arthur being there as well. He doesn't know why he is so curious to know—at least he is not consciously aware—but he convinces himself that his question is a reasonable one considering that he has heard a good deal about how close Francis and Arthur have become. His interpretation of the whole political ordeal is basically this: the two are practically sharing everything but land and culture. Therefore, it is logical conclusion to assume Arthur is going to be somewhere in Paris.

For some reason Alfred can't fathom, the prospect of meeting Arthur again makes his heart race a little faster than normal. Usually Alfred considers this a normal reaction considering most of the times when he thought of Arthur in the past it was because the other nation was bringing him food or making Alfred's blood boil in rage (at least that's what he believes). But right now, it's none of those things. Right now, he's at peace with the other—more peaceful than he has been with him in a while now. So why do green eyes, thin limbs and a conquistador-esque charisma keep invading his thoughts?

_Nah, _Alfred thinks, shaking his head and drawing another breath from the cigar. _It's probably just the fact I'm going to Paris after all this time. _Which makes sense because visiting a cultural capital of Europe is always intimidating. Especially when it's France. Alfred never knows what to expect. Then again, it's not like Francis has it any easier when he visits New York. There's always some thug on the streets who wants to beat "pretty boy" up.

Watching the sun set on the horizon, Alfred feels chills only the ocean wind could deliver and his cigar goes out due to the salty air.

"Ah fuck it," he says, casting the tobacco stick overboard when he's sure no one can see. The ship will be docking in France during the afternoon of the next day and then Alfred has a train ride to look forward to in order to reach the capital.

As he stuffs his hands into his coats pockets and turns to head inside, he can't help but wish for the day airplanes become commercialized. That way, he doesn't have to spend days on a ship to get somewhere and see people. _People who definitely do not live on an island and speak English in a cool accent and whose names happen to start with a "A" and end in a "rthur." Nope. No siree._

If Alfred's thinking thoughts like that then he knows it's time for him to go to bed. Maybe he should stop smoking those cigars too. Who knows where those came from.

* * *

By the time he reaches Paris, Alfred already has an idea of what the city will be like. The train he is on is full of Parisians dressed in sleek coats and brightly colored cocktail dresses. The men carry luxurious looking canes and have their hair sleeked back with pointy moustaches to compliment the fine look. The women wear headdresses and circlets around their heads with the occasional feather sticking out. Their hands are gloved to their elbows and their dresses are short and their heels are very very high. It's fascinating already.

When the train stops at the train station, Alfred is the first one to grab his bags and jump onto the platform. The feeling of standing on land has never felt so great and he relishes the feeling of breathing air besides what he is used to. It smells like perfume and smoke and wine—everything the city smelled like when he visited it nearly two hundred years ago. But it's different. It's…evolved somehow. Everything has evolved.

Alfred's feeling of euphoria doesn't last long as he finds himself being pushed around by rushing Parisians all speaking rapid French as they try to walk around him.

"Hey! Watch it!" he yells to someone who accidentally kicks his bag to the ground and he hears a chorus of "Stupide Americain." Yeah never mind. Nothing has changed.

"Need some help?"

The familiar voice behind him is a relieving sound and Alfred turns to find a gorgeous looking blond man in a black suit with a cane in his hand smiling at him with sparkling blue eyes. It's a face Alfred is unlikely to ever forget whether he wants to or not.

"Hey Francis!" Alfred exclaims as he straightens his now crooked glasses and picks up his bag. "Been a couple of years hasn't it?"

He enthusiastically shakes the Frenchman's hand and Francis smiles his dazzling oh-so-French smile. Alfred can tell, however, that smoking has become a large part of the French culture as well. The same subtle stains that have appeared on the American's teeth seem to be replicated onto the other's, which Alfred can only interpret as a sign of wealth. If you had cigars, you were living the good life.

"Oui, it has!" Francis replies as he takes Alfred's bag from him. The begin walking towards the exit of the station. "I'm sure we have a lot of catching up to do. Though I've been hearing a lot about how you've been doing lately. The Roaring 20's n'est pas?"

Alfred laughs heartily as they head down the steps of the station and stop in front of the busy street. Francis waves into the crowd, trying to hail a taxi. It is here where the sudden life of Paris hits Alfred like a train.

It's almost dusk and the things that stand out the most are the lights. There are lights everywhere from the streetlamps to the small vendors huddled together on the sides of the roads. Cars rule the streets, honking loudly but the well-dressed pedestrians don't seem to mind. There are mimes and other street performers showing off feats that only dazzle Alfred's mind. In fact, he can almost hear the accordion music whistling through the air. It's like New York but Frenchier.

A black taxi finally stops in front of them and the French driver barks for the two men to get in. Francis waves his hand in a chivalrous manner and Alfred steps into the car with the other right behind him. The Frenchman shuts the door, speaks an address in French—Alfred can only guess it's the location of the hotel Francis has arranged for him to stay in—and then he looks at Alfred and smiles.

"Roaring 20's indeed," Alfred agrees as he takes one more look outside the window before facing Francis.

Alfred has to admit, the other nation has really improved since he last saw him. His blond locks are not soiled with mud from the trenches. His eyes are sparkling in a way Alfred has never seen them sparkle before and it is truly dazzling just like the city. There are no dark circles or sunken cheekbones. Only sculptured jawlines and soft expressions and faultless composure and the sight only causes Alfred to suck in his breath. It really is unfair and disarming how beautiful Francis can be.

"So Alfred, why the sudden visit to Paris? You just couldn't stay long without seeing moi could you?" Francis asks, cheekily grinning in the way only Francis can.

Alfred snorts. "Nah, in your dreams Franney. I came because my people wouldn't shut up about you. They said Paris was to die for."

Francis chuckles while pulling his golden spun hair back into a ponytail.

"Well I'm honored that your people think so highly of me," he muses, leaning in towards Alfred. "But I have to say, this city has been reeking of Americans for the past couple of years! Well I guess I cannot help that I am quite alluring."

The American simply snorts, already used to Francis's antics, and pushes him away playfully.

"You smell like cheese Francis. I don't see how that's supposed to be alluring."

Francis merely withdraws and chuckles again, looking through the window at the Parisian scenery.

"You know, you came at a perfect time mon ami," he says without looking at Alfred, who has also taken to staring out the window at the lights.

"How do you mean?" Alfred asks, curiously.

Francis turns away from the window and smiles.

"Arthur sent me a telegram last night saying he'd be on a ferry to Calais in the morning. In fact, he should be arriving around midnight tonight."

Alfred detects something in the other's voice that he can't classify but his mind disposes of that thought when he realizes that Francis just told him Arthur was going to be there soon. Suddenly, he's ecstatic and he can't really pinpoint why.

"That's wonderful," he replies, trying not to let any stray excitement escape him. Either he doesn't do a good job of it or Francis is just really really good at reading the atmosphere because he quirks a fine blonde eyebrow in surprise but says nothing. Alfred decides the latter is more likely.

"Oui. I'll be going to pick him up as soon as I take you to your hotel," Francis continues without acknowledging Alfred's mood. "So I suggest you rest for a bit as soon as we get there. I have a couple of…nightly activities planned."

He says his last words with an amusement that Alfred has always shuddered at because one, Francis has always been extremely unpredictable and two, "nightly activities" plus Francis never sounded decent. For all he knew Francis could be planning an extremely kinky threesome between the three nations (though Alfred surprisingly doesn't find the aspect as horrifying as he probably should because the thought of Arthur sighing contently underneath him is just so—okay no that thought did NOT just cross his mind.)

The two of them say no more for Francis leaves his American counterpart to gaze in awe at the sights and lights of the busier streets of Paris. Alfred, instead of concentrating on the city, focuses his attention more upon his and Francis's steady breathing and not on a certain Brit. It is ten minutes later when the car finally comes to a stop and Alfred sees that it is has parked in front of a particularly lively building situated on a particularly lively and noisy street.

Francis leans up and hands the driver a few bills, thanking him and French and opening his door. Alfred takes this as his cue to leave the taxi as well and by the time he is out and breathing the surprisingly pleasant and smoky air, Francis has pulled his luggage out of the trunk and is waiting for him.

The next few moments consist of the two men entering the hotel lobby (Alfred cannot help but stare at the plush red velvet draping and feel welcomed by the overall vintage feel of everything. Gaping seems to make up the majority of his activities since his arrival and Paris and he knows Francis is enjoying it. That French bastard.)

After yelling at the concierge for a while in frustrated French for God knows what, Francis finally attains the key to Alfred's room, which happens to the largest one in the hotel thanks to the courtesy of the French nation, and the two make their way to the topmost floor.

Once Alfred has settled in (his settling in consists testing the bed for bounciness, checking the shower for warm water—he had felt relieved when he found that France actually had showers when he visited in 1790—and making sure he had a wonderful view) he starts to undress. Sitting on a train in a suit and tie is not really agreeable with the American and the feeling of relief he feels when he loosens his tie is full of elation.

As he is unbuttoning his shirt, he hears Francis clear his throat behind him and he turns to see the other leaning against the side of the doorway. Suddenly he starts feeling self-conscious as he sees the Frenchman smile a small smile because he has no idea what is going through the other's head. But Francis only picks up a small notepad that is sitting on the polished wooden side table next to the large queen-sized bed, pulls out a golden pen from inside his suit pocket (Alfred cannot help but note how he is wearing a three piece suit and feel jealous of the way it hugs his body in the a most seductive way), and scribbles something down upon the paper. He then sets it down again on the nightstand.

"Well then, I'll be off," he says, waving his fingers in an _au revoir_. "I would treat you to dinner but I have some work to get done and then I must pick up Arthur at the train station. There is, however, a nice little place to eat just across the street so don't hesitate to leave the hotel. Just make sure you come to this place at around midnight. D'accord?"

Francis points to the notepad he has just written on, winks when Alfred nods, and leaves just as smoothly as he appeared at the train station. When Alfred has changed into something a bit more comfortable, he strides over to the side table and tries to decipher Francis's annoyingly calligraphy-like handwriting. Eventually he gives up on trying to figure it out because it's something French so he has no idea if he's even reading right. Instead, he throws himself onto the extremely irresistible bed and his conscious drifts off into the depths of the unknown while he hears the faint sound of someone playing Louis Armstrong on the streets outside. He smiles softly and the thought of food never crosses his mind. Arthur, however, does.

**So I'm aware that nothing much happens in this chapter. But I had to break it here because the initial chapter was much much longer. Hope you liked it so far! And please review. I'd love to hear what you have to say. Arthur will be there in the next chapter. And I'm going to try to incorporate some good smut in this. So yeah, lots to look forward to. Merry Christmas!**


	2. First Night

**Okay here is the next chapter! And a Merry belated Christmas to you all! Enjoy xx**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Please excuse any grammar/tense issues as well as any things that I may have messed up with the time period. (I'm really not familiar with the 20s. Sorry!)**

**Chapter 2: First Night**

Alfred wakes suddenly to loud knocking on his door. He was in the middle of an enjoyable dream of New York City and that's exactly where he thinks he is until he hears an _excusez-moi Monsieur_ accompany the sharp doors. Right, he's in Paris.

"I'll be right there!" he calls, hoping his visitor is Francis or someone who can speak English. Quickly, he climbs out of bed, pats his hair down a bit (Nantucket is a hopeless cause) and rushes to the door.

"Yeah?" he asks groggily as he pulls open the door, coming face to face with a short and rail thin man with slick black hair, high cheekbones, and refined composure. Alfred can tell the man is eyeing him with distaste for the corner of his thin mouth tilts downward a bit and his shoulders stiffen somewhat.

"Monsieur Jones I presume?" the man says, speaking in crisp English. "I was instructed to send for you by the concierge. There is a taxi waiting for you at the front."

Alfred blinks a bit while he registers what the other has just said. And then,

"Shit! Is it midnight already?"

"It is."

"Shit!" he repeats again. "Okay, give me two seconds. I'll be right out."

He slams the door in the other man's surprised face, makes sure to wear something nice (Arthur is most certainly not the reason why he decides to wear the only three-piece suit he owns and hopes it looks just as good on him as it did on Francis), fumbles for his glasses, and tucks his case of cigars into his pocket. He also does well to pick up the notepad from his bedside table.

"Alright! I am ready!" Alfred exclaims, opening the door once again and this time the small man is exasperated. Alfred can only grin inwardly for he knows that the other is probably chanting _stupide Américain _over and over again in his head. The young nation has always enjoyed ruffling the feathers of the French. He's surprised they haven't declared war on his unappealing cultural attire and blasphemous food yet.

The American is eventually ushered into a taxi with a driver who looks much nicer than the one before and Alfred pushes Francis's squiggly handwriting in his face.

"Can you take me here?" he asks, chewing his lips and hoping the driver can understand.

"The Moulin Rouge?" the driver asks with an eyebrow raised. "Oui Monsieur, I can."

"Right," Alfred says, chuckling nervously and leans back. "The Moulin Rouge. I guess that's where I'm supposed to go."

The name sounds very familiar and Alfred ponders it the entire ride there. He is sure Francis has mentioned it before countless times he had last visited and Fitzgerald did highlight it as a key place to visit. Alfred simply can't remember anything about it. That's when the taxi pulls up in front of a street with crowds of people walking along it and the first thing Alfred sees is an iconic red windmill next to the bright words _Moulin Rouge._

Even though he's seen places with larger crowds in New York, the location and people seem intimidating nonetheless. Alfred quickly counts the right amount of francs to hand to the taxi driver, who nods a polite _merci_ and he exits the vehicle.

The stench of smoke is what hits him first here and he notices it because it is really so strong here more than anywhere else. Everyone here is smoking. Everyone here is laughing. Everyone here is happy and worry-free. Alfred cannot help but soak up the atmosphere and laugh and greet random people in distorted French. And for once, the people don't seem to mind because they laugh with him anyway. (They reek of alcohol too.)

Trudging through the crowd and into the actual entrance of the _Moulin Rouge_, Alfred suddenly finds himself enveloped in a warm setting filled with peppy music, whistles, giggles, and sudden cheers. Using his height advantage, the American looks to find a stage full of scantily dressed girls with powdered faces dancing gleefully to the loud music, lifting their skirts every once in a while past their hips. This, Alfred figures, is the cause of the occasional loud hoots and whistles from the audience. A slight blush rises to his cheeks and he quickly lights a cigar out of habit. Francis really has some... interesting pastimes.

"Not here you frog!"

It is a low hiss in the midst of cacophonous chatter but it is much too familiar to escape Alfred's hearing so easily. He is unconscious of it but his heart skips a beat as he turns around. Not far from him, he sees two blond men—one who stands out in the crowd and the other who simply blends in. It is the unnoticeable one Alfred has eyes for.

Arthur Kirkland is leaning in one of the dim corners of the place, a pipe between his lips, a top hat upon his messy mop of hair, and green eyes half closed as he breathes in the music. (Alfred almost chokes on his cigar when he sees the top hat because really there isn't anything more attractive in the world that Arthur could wear and GODDAMMIT no Francis's cane looks much cooler right? Yes? Yeah, no, this isn't working.)

Next to Arthur is a suave looking Francis, who is wearing the same black three-piece suit as earlier. Only now he has a thin cigarette wand gracefully placed between his middle and index finger. The cane is gone. His eyes cerulean eyes too are half lidded, his right arm is resting above Arthur's head on the wall, and he is gently saying something (more like whispering Alfred observes) in Arthur's ear. Alfred isn't sure if it is the lighting of the place or just his imagination or maybe some other odd explanation but he is quite sure he sees Arthur's cheeks flush a soft rose color. At first, the sight is enough to stir a pleasant feeling in Alfred. It's the barely there proximity between his two allies that unnerves him. Now he wishes he had cane to swat Francis's arm away while at the same time wondering why Arthur himself isn't doing so.

So Alfred does what Alfred does best. He intervenes. _Obnoxiously_. And it's enough to throw both of the older nations off guard.

"Hey guys!" he calls out as loud as he can over the already distict noise and his sudden voice does just what he predicts it will.

Arthur jumps, startled, and pushes a surprised Francis away. The two, however, quickly gain their composure—Arthur pats down his suit and takes his pipe out his mouth and Francis merely tucks a stray golden lock of hair behind his ear—and they turn to face the newcomer. Alfred notes that the smile on Francis's face leaks a miniscule amount of disappointment and this, for some reason, causes the young nation to smirk internally.

"Alfred, be a little louder will you?" Arthur says sarcastically, his characteristic scowl plastered on his face.

Alfred only laughs again and pats his friend on the back, much to the other's discontent.

"Nice to see you too Arthur," he replies, grinning a 100 watt smile. "And I'm great thanks for asking."

Arthur's scowl lifts slightly and he crosses his arms as he takes a puff from his pipe.

"Well it took you long enough to get here," is his only reply.

The American shrugs. "What can I say? French taxi service just isn't as great as I thought it would be. You could learn a thing or two from New York Francis."

Francis scoffs and dramatically places his hand over his heart.

"Excusez-moi! Please do not compare my fine city to your disaster of a metropolis," he retorts playfully, waving his cigarette wand in the air. "Alors, now that we are all here, why don't you all enjoy yourselves? I'll be back with some drinks."

With that said, the Frenchman stalks off while snapping his fingers at one of the waiters passing by and says something in rapid French. Alfred finds himself alone with his English ally. And for some reason, he feels restricted by the feeling of social awkwardness—something only his brother, Matthew, feels. It's a bit unnerving and very sudden.

"So… you look well," Alfred starts, hesitantly stealing a glance at the other and lifting the cigar to his lips.

Arthur smiles a bit.

"As do you. Roaring 20s?"

The younger country nods. "Yup. Roaring 20s!"

Alfred feels a pair of familiar green eyes on him and it takes a minute for him to realize that Arthur is staring at the scar on his temple. He also notices that Arthur is lifting a single finger with the intention to lightly trace it, his emerald orbs out of focus. Alfred can see flashes of the horrible World War flash by. And before Arthur can touch the side of his head, Alfred awkwardly jerks out of the way.

"Sorry," the Briton mutters, jerking his hand (Alfred observes that it's tainted with infinitesimal scars), another faint trace of a blush rising to his cheeks. "That… was impulsive."

The American shrugs and laughs nervously. "It's all good. No worries."

Silence.

"Does it hurt?"

"…Sometimes."

"I'm sorry."

"Well what's a hero without battle scars, right?"

Silence. Then,

"Do you have one?"

"Have what?"

"Ya know. A scar?"

"Oh…" An uncomfortable shift. "Yes. One on my leg."

"Ah. That's cool I guess."

"Hmmm…"

There's a longer period of silence and the loud music changes its rhythm. But it's just as upbeat as before. Alfred wonders if the dancers on stage ever get tired.

"Francis has one too you know."

Alfred raises his eyebrows and turns to face his British counterpart, who takes another long puff from his pipe and blows out a steady stream of smoke.

"Say what?"

Arthur nods in the direction he his facing towards the blond Frenchman who is now arguing angrily with a plump and balding man over who knows what while balancing three glasses of champagne and a cigarette wand in his nimble hands. He also has ostentatiously dressed girls hanging off his arms (did Arthur just snort?)

"A scar. The frog has one too," Arthur repeats, almost with a tinge of melancholy. "Across his back. You know, Western Front and all. He tries to hide it by keeping his collar up but you can tell it's there because he hates it when people touch his back. See?"

What Arthur points out now becomes extremely obvious. Alfred finds it hard to ignore the small cringes Francis tries to hide when the girls try to slide their sly arms around his waist or loop their arms through his. He almost feels the same sadness Arthur is emitting when a sudden thought hits him. (Literally. It's like an avalanche but colder. Icier.)

How the hell does Arthur know about the other nation's super secret, no one can touch it, scar?

Alfred feels something snap but he's not sure what. All he can feel is a certain hot sensation bubbling inside of him like a witch's brew and he opens his mouth, about to voice his question.

And then that damn Frenchy comes sauntering back, flipping his stupid silky hair in a haughty fashion. Again he wonders why he hasn't declared war on him yet.

"Desolée mes amis," Francis says, handing a thin, fragile looking champagne glass to each of them (Arthur scowls and says something to insult soft liquor and he doesn't fail to throw a "stupid frog" in there somewhere; Francis promptly waves his away). "Now then. Why don't we start the fun?"

* * *

**1:00 am**

Francis promises they'll all be drunk within the hour and his prophecy turns out to be quite true. The three of them are still at the Moulin Rouge but they are no longer standing in a dark corner. Rather, their positions are a bit… peculiar, as Alfred will later remember it.

Francis finds himself on stage with the can-can dancers, kicking joyfully with the giggling girls. The men don't jeer at him. They don't tell him to "get the fuck off" in French so they can enjoy the girls in peace. Rather, their cheering only increases. Some throw francs in his direction. One sly, lanky and drunk man even hooks a thin finger in the French nation's belt loops in a very suggestive manner. Francis doesn't seem to mind but the girls around him do. The man is quickly thrown off stage.

At some point, Francis's head disappears underneath one of the frilly skirts of one of the dancers. He is quickly dragged off stage by a horribly wasted British gentleman.

That British gentleman, before he taking it upon himself to drag a foolish Frenchman off stage by the collar, actually enjoys himself. He eventually trades the champagne for stronger whiskey and it doesn't take long before his head is in the clouds. He finds himself among thinkers and innovators and philosophers who are all sputtering drunken nonsense in a mixture of French and English (Alfred later dubs this phenomenon as "Frenglish"). And somehow, Arthur fits right in. Somewhere along the way, he is ambushed by a flock of flashy women wielding cigarette wands similar to Francis's, and they quickly begin to drag him away to the rooms in the back.

Terrified, he shouts to Alfred for help.

Alfred, before he hears Arthur's cry for help, is busy describing the construction of the Empire State Building to an awed audience. He brags about how it will be the tallest building in the world. He gestures enthusiastically about how people will be able to see its lights from miles and miles away. Just like the Statue of Liberty, he says, the Empire State Building will be iconic.

Those who are open-minded are intrigued. Those who are dedicated Parisians at heart are offended. Alfred quickly has to duck away from the crowd that he has gathered so as to avoid the huge debate that has sparked between the two factions.

A petit woman with large breasts, sparkling eyes and an attractive mole above her upper lip, spots the American. Alfred, being Alfred, decides to entertain her with a his big, white Uncle Sam smile and a "howdy little lady." And he is unaware of where her hand is going until he feels a light brush near his groin.

He is not sure how to respond. (Arthur blames his naiveté but Alfred blames the booze.) So he stammers a bit. And then,

"Alfred you git! Get away from the bloody prostitute and help me out over here!"

The blond is quick to oblige, taking this chance to be Arthur's hero, and rushes towards Arthur's voice, shrugging off the large-breasted, sparkly-eyed lady.

When Alfred finds Arthur, the Brit's top hat has disappeared (a pity), his hair is ruffled, and there are faint stains of lipstick on his cheeks. And holy mother of all things good and sacred in the world, the sight was deli-

"Alfred! Don't just stand there!"

Alfred snaps out of his temporary daze and tries to hide his blush.

"Okay, okay! Geez, Arthur. Don't get your panties all twisted up."

He pushes through the circle of laughing girls and loops his arm through Arthur's so as to pull him out.

"Excuse me ladies but mind if I borrow him for a while?" he asks, delivering them yet another dazzling smile.

He doesn't wait for a response as he tugs the Brit out and drags him to a spot closer to the stage.

"You know Arthur, I don't mind being the hero and all, but I can't believe you needed my help to get away from a couple of girls!" Alfred teases.

Arthur looks offended and scoffs.

"Excuse me! They were bloody persistent French harlots! They are dangerous I tell you! And at least I wasn't the one ogling at a prostitute's breasts."

Alfred skips the defense and takes it straight to the offense.

"Why Arthur? Are you jealous?"

Arthur only snorts. Alfred is about to pick up his guts and tell the other how sexy he looks all ruffled up.

Arthur spots Francis with his nose where it shouldn't be. Alfred wants to drown in a glass of good old bourbon.

* * *

**3:00 am**

The trio has left the Moulin Rouge and they are now wandering the streets of Paris with Francis in the lead. The beautiful blond is obnoxiously singing _I Wanna Be Loved By You_ by Helen Kane with a bottle of Merlot in his hand. Alfred only laughs and sings along. Arthur, who at first grumbles about being too loud and gathering too much attention, has also started to hum a bit.

The three reach a bridge that overlooks the Seine and for once it is peaceful and quiet. The moon's reflection in the water is more beautiful than the actual thing itself and Alfred wonders if it is because of some of the magic that Fitzgerald claims habits the city.

Francis hoists himself onto the railing of the bridge and swings his legs over so they are wavering above the water.

"What the hell are you doing Francis?" blubbers Arthur, who feebly attempts to pull Francis down.

"Don't worry, mon cher!" Francis replies in smooth but slightly slurred speech. "I'm not going to fall in. Why don't you join me?"

"I'm not worried," Arthur grumbles, folding his arms. "And there's no way in sodding hell I'm going to sit up there."

The Frenchman rolls his eyes and flips his hair.

"Ugh Arthur. You really know how to kill the mood. Alfred, why don't you show Arthur how to be a man and come up here to join me?"

Alfred, who's been eyeing the water with amazement, doesn't need another invitation. With relative ease, he too jumps onto the railing and is soon sitting in the same position as Francis is, though he is not right next to him. There is a space in between them for one more.

"Come on Arthur! Live a little! Don't be an old man," Alfred exclaims, extending a hand to the Brit. Francis does the same.

Arthur frowns his signature frown but he relents and takes both of the outstretched hands, climbing onto the railing. (Alfred swears he hears Arthur mumble something along the lines of "I'm not a fucking girl" and he chuckles internally.)

And the three of them sit there, watching the moonlight ripple with the light waves of the Seine River and admiring the twinkling lights of Paris all around them. A sweet and soft breeze blows and even thought it's warm, Alfred cannot help but shiver slightly. Arthur does the same. Alfred is not exactly sure but he thinks he sees Arthur lean in towards Francis. And he thinks he sees Francis lean slightly towards Arthur with a small smile playing on his lips.

The only thing that keeps Alfred from delivering a freedom punch to Francis's stupidly sculptured jaw is the warmth that is radiating from Arthur's hand, which is touching his. He figures that's good enough for now.

* * *

**5:00 am**

Arthur, it turns out, decides to stay in the same hotel Alfred is staying in rather than whatever previous arrangement he had planned. Francis doesn't seem to happy about this but he acquiesces nonetheless and the three of them eventually find themselves in front of Alfred's room. And Lady Luck seems to be on Alfred's side because Arthur is staying in the room right next to him.

The three of them mutter their goodnights and their goodbyes to each other and Alfred retreats to his humble abode. The sensation of a hangover is starting to kick in and Alfred cannot wait for his head to make contact with his pillow. As he undresses, he digs into his pocket to take out his cigar case and, to his surprise, finds Francis's tie. He has no idea how it ended up in his pocket but then again, he can't really remember what happened in the last hour.

Hoping Francis hasn't already left, Alfred opens his door and peeks out to see Francis still standing in front of Arthur's room. The young American is about to call out to him and ask him why he's standing outside the Brit's room for no reason but then he realizes that he is actually conversing with a dazed looking Arthur.

Alfred cannot hear what they are saying for they are speaking in low voices but he watches them out of curiosity them all the same.

Francis stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns to leave when Arthur grabs him by the collar and pulls him forward.

And maybe it's because Alfred still has alcohol in his system. Maybe it's because it's really late and he's extremely tired. Maybe those Cubans put something in his cigars but Alfred sees Arthur bring his lips up to the Frenchman's ear and murmur something.

_Je t'aime you frog._

__The door slams.

Alfred isn't sure where his heart runs away to but he knows it's out the window and tripping all over the pedestrians in the streets and bleeding nonstop.

"Francis!" he croaks out and the other, who is beginning to turn away yet again, wheels around in surprise. His jaw tenses a bit.

"Oui Alfred?"

"Um, y-your tie. It was in my pocket."

Francis relaxes, walks over and takes the tie from the other, smiling a tired smile.

"Merci Alfred. And bonne nuit."

Alfred and Francis are both slightly aware of the unspoken beginnings of an approaching war.

* * *

Somehow Alfred finds a way to go to sleep.

* * *

**5:30 am**

Alfred dreams of Fitzgerald explaining the meaning of love to him.

* * *

**6:00 am**

Alfred realizes he's in love with Arthur.

* * *

**6:30 am**

Alfred realizes Francis is too.

**Well I hope that gives you something to think about! By the way, sorry if Alfred is a bit OOC. I've never really written in his POV so jealous!Alfred is still a bit rusty. **

**Reviews are always appreciated :3 (If I get some reviews I'll update faster. Yes I am bribing you because I am evil. Don't underestimate me mwahahahaa). **

**And just in case, Happy New Year!**


	3. Second Day

**Alright, so here's chapter 3! I actually wrote this all in one sitting and let me tell you, it wasn't fun. Okay actually it was but when I went to bed, I felt like I was on LSD. **

**Anyway, this chapter is purely USUK. And I'm actually quite proud of it. I hope you think the same! Also, thank you to tumblr user tomatoesandexpletives for editing this for me. And thank you to everyone who reviewed/favorited/followed. I love you 3**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. I'm sorry for anything that is out of time and place (did they have gondola rides in the 1920's on the Seine? I don't know...). **

**Chapter 3: Second Day**

Alfred wakes up to blinding light streaming from the window to his right and a raging headache. He's pretty sure there's an army of men with hammers pounding on his skull like it's a fun sport. He groans. But he's not like Arthur who tries to convince himself that he will never drink ever again.

That's when he hears the knocking on his door and a muffled voice.

"Alfred! Alfred! Get up before I have to knock the bloody door down and get you! It's nearly noon!"

The first thing that runs through Alfred's mind is _how the hell is Arthur up and yelling already? _The second thing that goes through his head is _Arthur is at the door. I should probably get up and open the door before he goes British Empire and strangles me. _

"I'm coming. I'm coming," he groans and practically rolls out of the bed and onto the floor with a thud. The sudden contact with the floor wakes him up a bit and he somehow finds support in his legs. Crossing over to the door quickly, he pulls it open with more force than necessary and he comes face to face with a slightly surprised Briton.

"Alfred, you look terrible!"

"Hmmm…" he groans unintelligibly, rubbing his temple all the while. "I think it has something to do with the little men with hammers inside my head."

Arthur blinks. "…The what?"

Alfred rubs his head sheepishly.

"Urm, nothing. What are you doing here man?"

Arthur, who has donned on the same gentlemanly look as yesterday with a dark blue suit and a matching top hat, frowns and crosses his arms—a cute gesture, Alfred must admit.

"As I said before, it's bloody noon already. We've wasted half a day because you and that stupid frog can't handle hangovers or you're both too damn lazy."

Alfred opens his mouth in protest, ready to dispute the hangover remark because he is a refined gentleman who is definitely mature enough for him, but Arthur only presses on.

"But Francis probably isn't going to meet us today anyway," Arthur says with a poorly disguised resigned sigh as he pushes past Alfred and throws himself onto the American's messy bed.

Alfred raises an eyebrow as he shuts the door.

"Huh?"

Arthur places his hands under his head and stares at the ceiling, not caring that his legs are all but dangling over the edge of the bed.

"Well, after I was done yelling at him this morning, he mentioned something about having a rather important meeting with his boss this afternoon," the Brit elaborates, scowling once more. "So it's unlikely he'll be able to host us today. It's a shame really to spend such a lovely day doing nothing."

At first, Alfred's spirit falls a bit for he didn't expect to spend a whole day in Paris sitting around wallowing in boredom. Then his spirit practically soars to the peak of Mount Everest when he comes up with a clever idea. (Oh he'll have to pat himself on the back later for being such a genius.)

Arthur notices a grin spread on Alfred's face and he's not sure whether he should be curious or terrified so he sits up instead.

"Hey man, we don't need Franny to have fun in Paris!" Alfred exclaims. "It's not like he's the life of the party or anything. I mean, how do you think other tourists have fun?"

The Englishman's jade eyes narrow and his thick eyebrows furrow slightly.

"What exactly are you trying to say?" he asks slowly.

And Alfred proceeds to strike his customary "hero" pose.

"Don't you worry Arthur! The hero shall take you out to see Paris today!" the younger nation declares enthusiastically.

"Alfred you don't even know how to get around Paris. It's not New York City."

"Ahh can't be that hard can it? I mean, isn't that what the Eiffel Tower is for? It's like that really shiny star you can see at night that always takes you home. Pol-pa-ummm- I think it's named for a dog? Or is that one different? I can never—"

"Alfred!" Arthur barks, standing up and heading back towards the door. "I'm not going to follow you around Paris while you get us lost git. Let's just wait and see if Francis's meeting gets over quickly."

Alfred's spirit decides to jump off the Himalayan peaks. It hits the ground pretty hard.

"I guess this gay city is only fun to explore if there's a cheese eating wino with his hand in your pants leading the way," Alfred mumbles to himself, sulking as he hears Arthur open the door.

For a couple of seconds, there is nothing.

Then a door slam and a huff. Alfred turns around, surprised.

Arthur is standing there with his arms crossed and the tips of his ears dipped in unhealthily bright red. Alfred gets the feeling the other heard him, and he braces himself for the death threats sure to follow.

Instead, Arthur merely sighs again and replies,

"Fine. I'll tour Paris with you. But _I'm _leading the way considering I've been here more than you have. Deal?"

Alfred internally thanks Matthew for teaching him the art of passive aggression. And before Arthur realizes it, he is whisked away out of the hotel by an overly excited American while all the while screaming bloody murder about Alfred is still in his pajamas.

**!**

Arthur succeeds in forcing Alfred back to his hotel room to wear appropriate clothing (Alfred is convinced it's because the Brit feels the need to compete with the already fashionable Parisians). Alfred ends up flinging one of his socks out of the balcony while he plays a little game of tug of war with Arthur over a certain ugly green tie that Arthur is trying to make him wear. The American then proceeds to make a fuss about needing to wear matching socks and Arthur pretty much has to wrestle the other into a chair so he can shove two different socks on Alfred's horrendously smelly feet.

"Arthur stop! It tickles!" Alfred almost squeals out when Arthur grudgingly gets one of the socks around Alfred's big toe.

The Brit grits his teeth in concentration.

"Alfred, hold still dammit! You're acting like a chil-oof!"

He is kicked square in the chest by a still squirming Alfred and he can't help but roll his eyes.

It's just like old times, though the both of them don't really acknowledge it. (Arthur feels a stirring and Alfred waves it off as something else.)

* * *

**2:00 pm**

The exhilarated American and the exasperated Englishman wander the crowded streets of Paris, drenched in the humidity of the afternoon sun. It isn't long before the two of them start to feel beads of sweat forming on their foreheads. Arthur pulls out a small handkerchief and dabs his damp face.

"Bloody hell, how do they do it?" he mutters, staring at a young couple dressed tight-fitted clothing and brimming with makeup as they walk by. "I swear, it's like the French aren't even human."

"You should see Florida. This is nothing compared to what Miami feels like," Alfred chimes in as he grins and waves at a group of vibrantly dressed ladies with cigarette wands. They giggle. Arthur frowns and tugs him away as they find themselves across the street from the river Seine.

"Quit flirting," Arthur scolds as he brings them both under the roof of a small outdoor market. Unlike the habitual smoky air that floats around the city, this little spot seems fresh and alive with the souls of organically grown vegetables. "I thought we were supposed to be looking at Paris not the ladies."

Alfred delves into the pocket of his coat to reach for his cigar box, taking one out and lighting it. He offers one to his British companion who obliges, puts it in his mouth, and touches the tip of it to the tip of Alfred's to light it. His eyes are half lidded as he patiently waits for his cigarette to light and Alfred notices how his cheeks are tinged with a glorious pink, though he isn't sure whether it is from the sun or their proximity. But the actually sight of the flustered Brit inches away from his face almost makes him drop his cigar.

It doesn't help when Arthur blows a little puff of smoke in Alfred's direction once his cigar is lit, his eyes still half-lidded and a barely there smirk creeping on his face.

Alfred isn't sure whether Francis has influenced him too much or provocativeness has actually entered British culture.

* * *

**3:00 pm**

The duo ends up getting lost in an alleyway somewhere in the large labyrinth of the city (Arthur all the while complaining how London is so much easier to navigate because of better urban planning) and they are almost mugged by two ragged looking men because Alfred couldn't keep his mouth shut when the Brit pulled out a gleaming pocket watch to check the time.

Alfred is about to deliver a massive punch in the gut to the big burly man with stringy hair and missing teeth when he hears Arthur cry out,

"Alfred, look out!"

The American nation swerves around to see the second scrawnier man pull out a small silver knife and charge at him. Alfred yelps and ducks out of the way just in time to watch Arthur dig his heel into the mugger's shin, knocking him into the brawny man. The two tumble to the ground and Alfred allows himself to enjoy the sight of the British Empire for a little bit (look at that ass.)

"Well why are you just standing there? Run!" Arthur snaps as he begins to bolt for it, grabbing Alfred's hand to haul him out of the shady street and into Paris's elaborate back alleys. They're so far in that the musical honks of cars and chattering Parisians are almost completely muffled. The smell of smoke is multiplied.

The sight that welcomes them is completely different from that of the lively and colorful city. Here it is overflowing with rubbish and the occasional scuttling of a rat can be heard. As the two nations tread through the narrow pathways carefully, they see ragged looking humans sorting through leftovers, little children huddling under soiled tarps for shelter, and helpless stares. It makes Alfred's heart ache to the point where he tightens his grip on Arthur's hand. The Brit says nothing but wears a grim expression as he surveys the abject scenery as if he's used to it.

It is at this moment that the younger blond realizes that although Francis and Arthur seem to be wallowing in happiness, they are only covering up their losses much like they are covering their scars. These may be the Roaring '20's but Europe has a long way to go before anyone is really happy again. Alfred wants to throw his arms around Arthur right then and there.

But Arthur stops abruptly, causing Alfred to bump into him.

"Bullocks!" Arthur curses, scratching the back of his head with his free hand. "Now where do we go?" (He is still holding onto Alfred's hand but he's too preoccupied to notice and Alfred really doesn't feel like telling him otherwise.)

And while Arthur is muttering obscene curses under his breath and blaming his companion for getting them lost, the distant smell of baguettes hits Alfred's food-conditioned nose. He never thought he'd connect the smell of baguettes to freedom.

"Arthur, this way!" he yells, dragging Arthur along as he breaks into a run down a slightly wider street. Arthur sputters a bit but starts to keep up, questioning his companion's sanity.

Alfred leads the both of them through a series of streets, jumping over trash bins and dodging other obstacles until at last they come across a rather wide alley with sunlight streaming on the other side. The smell of baguettes is even stronger now and Alfred is seriously hoping there is a café or something nearby because his stomach is practically roaring with hunger.

"Alfred, you found the road!" Arthur exclaims, laughing with relief as his furry eyebrows lift with the release of tension.

Alfred strikes another hero pose.

"Never underestimate the hero!" he boasts loudly, before he hears a rather angry voice with a slight tremor.

"Qui est la?"

The two nations look at each other as they make their way towards the voice and the light.

In the little light that is pouring onto the dim street, Alfred focuses his eyes on two figures against the wall—a rather handsomely dressed man with slightly messy hair and a woman in a short pink dress whose sleeves are pulled down past her shoulders. The man's arms are around her slim waist and the woman's fingers are treaded through his gelled hair. They are both looking in the nations' general direction. The man repeats with more fervor,

It takes a second before Arthur and Alfred realize what's actually going on and the fact that they are still holding hands becomes painfully aware to them. Arthur blushes heavily and quickly releases Alfred's hand, coughing in his awkward British way.

"Uh sorry about that man!" Alfred says, laughing hesitantly as he makes his way past them with Arthur right behind him. "We're just gonna go."

He feels an intense stare and hears a "stupide Americain" as he walks into the broad daylight, squinting as the sudden change in light throws him off of balance. He has an urge to hiss. Arthur does it for him.

"Bloody hell it's so hot and sunny now. I'd rather be in that dark street," the Briton complains, shielding his eyes.

Alfred is a bit too busy scanning the suddenly happy scenery for something that can soothe his rumbling tummy to make a comment about using his eyebrows as a shield when he spots the small café from which the delicious baguette fragrance was coming.

"Arthur! Over there!" he exclaims, sprinting over to the secluded little outdoor café under a red marquee that had something French inscribed on it in gold.

* * *

**6:15pm**

Arthur and Alfred are seated at one of the small but comfortable tables at the café Alfred discovered, which they find out is called _Les Deux Amants _or as Arthur translates, The Two Lovers.

Which explains why it has a rather intimate atmosphere what with the many happy couples seated around them. Arthur is embarrassed. Alfred is oblivious.

The people around them are also sneaking glances in their direction, whispering things to their significant other with mixed expressions. It takes Arthur a moment to figure out that theirs is the only table with two men whereas all the other tables are occupied by a man and a woman.

_Oh bloody hell, _he thinks, looking around nervously. _Do they think I'm gay with…Alfred?_

He isn't really too bothered by the Parisians and what they're gossiping about, but he's a bit flustered by thought of being with Alfred and he's not sure why. Being with Francis is one thing but the American? Well he had never really thought about it…

Alfred senses the sudden tension radiating from his British counterpart and raises his eyebrows.

"You okay British dude? You look constipated."

"I'm just fine!" Arthur snaps, fingering his collar a bit. "I…I just have a feeling that they'll have bad food. Come on, let's just go back to the-"

"Bonne journée messieurs. How may I help you?" comes a rich and deep voice and both Arthur and Alfred are startled to see a rather good-looking French waiter with broad shoulders and thick curly hair gelled back standing at their table. He smiles charmingly at the two of them.

Arthur coughs awkwardly again as he hurriedly answers, "Er no we were just leaving. So nothing will be necessary tha-"

"Oh but monsieur I _insist," _the waiter says with another disarming smile, cutting the Brit off. "At least have some refreshing dessert for his hot weather."

"You mean like cake?" Alfred interjects before the Englishman can protest. "That'd be awesome thanks!"

The waiter bows in a flashy way and winks.

"As you wish monsieur."

As he stalks off with a certain swagger, Alfred laughs and turns to Arthur.

"He's kinda like Francis isn't he?"

Arthur only mumbles back a, "Well all Frenchmen are frogs, didn't you know?"

"Touché mon ami," the American responds, pulling his glasses to the bridge of his nose and waggling his eyebrows.

Arthur bursts into laughter and clutches his stomach.

Alfred's never had so many butterflies breeding in stomach before.

**!**

When they're dessert finally arrives, Alfred is practically salivating like a dog because he is so hungry. But when the flirty waiter places the miniature cake on the table and leaves, Arthur's eyes widen in shock before Alfred has the chance to dig in.

"What's wrong?" the younger one questions, his fingers itching to dive into the tasty, pink and white pastry.

Arthur only shakes his head.

"Nothing. Just go ahead and eat."

So Alfred does. He stuffs his mouth with the sinful creamy and scrumptious sweet without acknowledging the sculptured calligraphic words written in icing.

_Pour l'Americain et son Rosbif. _

For the American and his rosbif.

* * *

**7:30 pm**

The sun is still shining as the evening creeps on and Arthur and Alfred are only leaving the café. Despite Arthur's obvious discomfort, Alfred had underestimated his hunger and ended up ordering sweet after sweet after sweet. At least the café served some decent tea otherwise Alfred would have been pummeled by Arthur's impatient nerves.

Alfred drags his friend around from vendor to vendor, all the while speaking in broken French and trying on varieties of top hats, feathery headdresses, and hunks of jewelry. And Arthur actually enjoys it. Seeing the American getting scolded by annoyed French vendors for dancing around like an idiot while wearing hats that were too big for his head amuses the Briton to no extent. And every time Alfred hears Arthur's hearty laughs, his heart only swells further.

There is one particular vendor that sells embroidered tea towels and Alfred manages to find one that says _C'est le blasphèmie si tu n'aimes pas le thé, _which the salesman translates for him as "It's blasphemy if you don't like tea", and Alfred decides it fits Arthur perfectly. So he buys it for him and Arthur admonishes him dramatically about how he shouldn't spend his money on such overpriced items.

But Alfred can see the way Arthur holds onto the plushy and admittedly brilliantly crafted souvenir with fondness and he smiles internally. Arthur loves it.

* * *

**8:00 pm**

The sun has started to melt into a soft orange hue and the streets of Paris start to welcome more and more people. To avoid the new crowd, the Englishman and his former colony find themselves along the banks of the Seine. It is here that Arthur spies gondolas floating serenely down the river and Alfred is surprised when he insists that they ride in one as well.

So they do.

And as they sit relaxingly in a small gondola while a youth of no more than twenty rows the boat silently, Arthur cannot help but thread his fingers through the gently rippling water and Alfred takes to admiring the silhouette of the magical city in the dripping paint of the sunset. This moment of placid existence is quite different from the rest of their day so none of them bother to say anything. Nothing needs to be said. Their heads are in the clouds for Paris has drugged them with utter tranquility.

Arthur begins to hum faintly and Alfred breaks his momentary love affair with the city to glance at his friend. (He does take note of the fact that they are sitting inches apart and instantly becomes painfully aware of the intimacy of the whole situation.)

"Hey…Arthur?" he starts and the Brit turns around to face him, a calm expression soothing his features.

"Yes Alfred?"

There is a moment of silence as Alfred rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as he tries to find what he wants to say.

"Have you ever thought what it would be like if there were no wars? Ya know, if we as countries weren't defined by politics or governments?"

Arthur only blinks at him and gives him a weird look.

"Well idiot, that would make us humans then," is his response and Alfred suddenly feels really really stupid. Arthur takes to gazing at the now purple sky.

"But in all honestly, I have thought about it before. I think it would be a liberating feeling, not having to fight your neighbors ever fifty years or so. Not having to feel the pain of losing the ones you love every so often."

The sandy haired man focuses his piercing green eyes on his American counterpart.

"Not having to witness those you are fond of leaving you."

When he says those words, Alfred knows exactly what the other nation is referring to. He means the constant bickering between him and the rest of Europe. He means the passing of his beloved monarchs and the rise of revolutions. He means the suffering of his citizens. He means the tiresome affair he cannot explain that he has with Francis. He means Alfred.

And Alfred has no idea what to say. He's studied Hollywood films to the point where he knows how these cheesy scenes in the sunset end but now that he's here, he's not sure what to do.

So he leans inwards.

"Arthur…I…"

Arthur doesn't seem to know what to do either because he lets the American get close enough so that their noses are almost touching. But the moment he feels Alfred's large hand brushes his, he snaps back into reality and pushes the other away, shaking his head.

"We should go back to the hotel," Arthur mutters without looking at the other. "It's almost dinner time and Francis should be about done."

They are greeted by more silence as the gondola rower begins to steer them towards shore. As the two nations climb out, Alfred somehow gets past the fact that his heart his in his throat and manages to croak out,

"Arthur I'm…"

But he says no more for he sees Arthur has taken to staring at his feet, his mind absent from reality.

* * *

**8:45 pm**

When they reach their hotel, Arthur is walking a good two feet in front of Alfred and the two of them haven't said a word since they returned from the Seine.

They make their way past the myriads of nocturnal Parisians, and Arthur pushes the door to the hotel open, holding it open for Alfred without giving him a single glance. This gesture calms the extremely crestfallen nation for he now knows that at least Arthur isn't angry with him. He's simply confused.

As they make their way up to the topmost floor, Arthur clears his throat and begins, still not looking at Alfred,

"Would you like a drink or something while I ring up Francis? I've got a bottle of gin in my room if you'd like."

It's the first thing Arthur's said in the last fifteen minutes and the younger country is caught by surprise.

"Huh? Oh sure, I guess," he answers, his heart thumping lightly. Okay, Arthur definitely isn't mad at him.

Arthur glances over his shoulder quickly and only nods as they reach the door to his room. The older nation pulls out his keys and fumbles with them for a bit before inserting them into the lock and turning the knob.

Alfred is sure Arthur is going to say something else when he lets out a small yelp.

Francis is sitting in one of the posh, maroon velvet chairs near the doorway, his cane at his right side. His hair is tied back in a deep velvet ribbon and his legs are crossed as he looks up from the newspaper he is reading, a fine eyebrow raised.

"Oh, it's you Francis," Arthur sighs, his shoulders falling into a relaxed state. He seems a bit relieved to see him. Alfred is experiencing the opposite feelings and his shoulders slump for different reasons as well. "What are you doing in my room?"

Francis only smiles as he tucks a golden ringlet behind his ear before standing up. His bright blue eyes shift from Arthur to Alfred, where they rest for a while for a while.

"Well it is almost 9:00 and I did bail out on you both. I decided I would take you to dinner."

And it's almost as if Francis knows something happened between the two of them because suddenly Alfred wants to crumble underneath Francis's soft and trusting gaze. Or maybe it's just the overwhelming guilt he's feeling when he realizes what he almost coaxed Arthur into doing.

But all of that disappears when the Frenchman slips a slender arm around Arthur's waist and leads him out of the door, motioning for Alfred to follow.

Fuck guilt. Francis knows. And now he is going to have to ignore the rules.

**Phew okay. I thought that was development but I'm not sure what you guys think (hint hint review). I tried to keep them all in character so hopefully it worked out. **

**And it's funny because while I was writing this, I literally wanted to hit Arthur on the head with a brick. I mean even though I know exactly how I want this to end, Francis and Alfred are just poor babies and sometimes I just write Arthur like a douche and they just deserve better and ughhh. Seriously I feel like I'm writing fucking twilight here. **

**Well enough ranting. You should just tell me what you thought (and I will update more quickly deal?) xD**


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